


Cake at 2AM

by threeplusfire



Series: Filthy Money [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Cake, Domesticity, M/M, Multi, Paperwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, make a cake.” Smith rolled back over onto his side and curled around Ross’ shoulders.<br/>“It’s past two in the morning, I’m surrounded by contracts and you want me to make you a cake.”<br/>“Yes.” Smith smiled his biggest, most charming grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake at 2AM

**Author's Note:**

> Based on some random writing prompt where someone wants to have cake at 2am. Set in the Venture Capitalist AU, because I love that.

Smith groaned, and rubbed his eyes. Across the room, Ross looked up from where he sat cross legged in front of the couch.

“What?” he asked, not entirely unsympathetically. He leaned back against the edge of the couch, rolling his shoulders to ease the kink from leaning over for hours.

“I’m so sick of this fucking accounts spreadsheet,” Smith grumbled. “Why can’t we pay someone else to do this?” He gestured at the stack of mail beside his laptop, all sorts of invoices and bills from the past six months.

“Cause we’re not making enough money yet?” Ross guessed. “But you’d probably know better than I would now since you’ve been working on that since this afternoon.”

“We’re making money, it’s just all the spending money that’s doing us in.” Smith tucked a foot under his knee, bouncing his leg with restless energy.

“What are we spending money on?” asked Ross. He looked back down at the papers scattered in front of him, contracts for various deals he was trying to sort and file. There was so much paperwork from the first few months of the new business, and none of them were ever particularly on top of paperwork. It tended to get put off until something came up, and then they frantically got caught up over the course of a couple days.  

“Rent, electricity, food...” Smith trailed off, mumbling under his breath. “Your fucking gym membership, do you have any idea how much money that is?”

“Fuck off Smith,” Ross groaned. “My fucking gym membership-”

“Is a hundred a month! What the actual fuck is worth a hundred a month?” Smith gestured angrily with one hand, holding up one of the statements. Ross cursed under his breath, and made a mental note to get those switched to electronic statements only.

“Keep it down, or you’ll wake Trott!” Glancing at the closed bedroom door, Ross listened for any sounds of their third partner stirring. He’d gone off to bed some hours ago with dire threats if they kept him awake, and even more dire threats if they didn’t finish sorting out the paperwork mess before Monday morning. Quarterly taxes were due next week, and they needed to make sure the books were in line. Which was why Ross and Smith were sitting in the living room at nearly 2am on Saturday morning with work instead of being out in a bar, watching movies, playing video games, or even sleeping. Basically anything fun was off the table until this was done.

“Seriously,” Smith continued in a quieter but no less annoyed voice. “Why the fuck is your gym a hundred a month? What could possibly be going on there?”

“There’s classes and stuff, and I can go to any of their locations around town…” He shrugged. It was a nice gym, and he really liked it. It was stupidly expensive, but Ross justified it to himself because it was healthy. Also, he was a grown up with a real job and he could afford to do something nice for himself.

“Can you get a massage or a blow job there?” Smith raised his eyebrows suggestively, running a hand through his messy auburn hair. His chin was covered in two days worth of stubble. Smith seemed morally opposed to the idea of spending time in a gym.

“No,” Ross groaned. “They do have DJs for the cardio, personal trainers, and I think there’s a sauna.” There was a sauna. A rather nice sauna that didn’t make you worry about infections or splinters. He just wasn’t going to admit that he’d used it a lot because he was not going to listen to Smith rant.

“Can’t you, I don’t know, just run around the block?”

“Well yeah if I wanted to be run over by a bus.” Ross snorted. “Look, I can deduct that as a business expense so it doesn’t matter, and it’s not like I’m buying hookers or drugs!”

“How the actual fuck…” Smith threw his hands up in the air. “Nevermind, I’m done - no more of this. I’m not an accountant.”

Ross sighed, and went back to organizing all the old contracts, trying to separate them from the newer ones. At the dining table, Smith shut his laptop. The shitty track lighting lit everything with a dim halogen glow. For a moment he sat there, head pillowed in his arms, and bare feet scuffing the cheap carpet.

The apartment wasn’t very big, or particularly nice, but the rent was reasonable enough and it was only a block away from the metro. Usually the moment they got home, Smith changed into a t-shirt and jeans. Often he started shedding clothes as they unlocked the door. It made Trott absolutely crazy, which probably only encouraged Smith’s slovenly habits.

Smith flung himself down on the sofa behind Ross, his feet dangling over the arm. Immediately, he began poking at Ross’ shoulder. He walked his fingers up to Ross’ collar, and up the back of his neck. Ross was still wearing his clothes from work, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie on the narrow coffee table. He had at least taken off his shoes.

“What?” Ross’ voice was distracted as he labelled manilla folders with dates.

“I’m hungry,” Smith complained.

“There’s leftovers from dinner, probably some pad thai or whatever that Trott didn’t finish.”

“I want something sweet.” He rolled over onto his back. “I want cake.”

“Cake?” Ross raised his eyebrows as he stuck contracts in folders.

“Make me a cake, Ross,” Smith wheedled.

“No,” snorted Ross.

“Come on, make a cake.” Smith rolled back over onto his side and curled around Ross’ shoulders.

“It’s past two in the morning, I’m surrounded by contracts and you want me to make you a cake.”

“Yes.” Smith smiled his biggest, most charming grin. Ross thought he looked a bit like some human version of the Cheshire cat when he did that.

“No,” Ross repeated.

“Come on,” Smith whined. He flicked his fingers against the back of Ross’ head. “If you don’t make a cake, I’m going to tell Trott how much that gym costs every month.”

Ross set down a file folder and turned his head just enough to stare at Smith with a flat, unamused expression.

“Trott doesn’t know, does he?” Smith’s grin grew bigger. “Of course he doesn’t, because he’d tell you go to the trash gym that’s over on 8th. He doesn’t know you go to the fancy DJ filled pretty boy gym.”

“Smith I swear to-” Ross raised a finger warningly. Smith grabbed his wrist.

“Make me a goddamn cake, Ross, and your gym membership is secret.” His thumb rubbed over the inside of Ross’ wrist, a familiar gesture they shared. It always brought a little smile to Ross’ face, a warmth in his chest.   

“You are such a fucking asshole,” Ross sighed. “Fine. We’ll make a cake. You know that’s going to take like an hour, right?”

“Awesome, we’ll be done by then right?” He bounced up off the sofa with newfound energy.

“You might be.” Ross stacked the folders that were finished and levered himself to his feet. He wondered if they even had stuff to make a cake, though he had been to the store just recently. He stared into the fridge, registering the eggs and milk along with a couple take out containers. There was half a stick of butter in the little compartment in the door. Ross grabbed a beer and popped the top. He might as well enjoy his time in the kitchen.

In the pantry, there wasn’t much. Pancake mix. Coffee. Some easy udon noodle packets. A stray box of chocolate cake mix that Smith had insisted on buying, claiming a fondness for the highly artificial nature of box mix cakes. Ross sighed. It was box cake mix or nothing, because he was not about to walk down to the bodega on the corner to try to find cake ingredients. He grabbed the cake mix, and read the instructions on the back with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” he said with resignation. “I’m sure it will be fine.” He flicked on the oven, and pulled a bowl out of the cabinet over the sink. While the oven ticked quietly, he dragged out the pair of round pans, and gave them a lazy swipe to clean out the dust.

Ross poured the cake mix into the bowl and cracked in the eggs. He was about to fill the measuring cup with the water required on the back of the box when his gaze fell on the open bottle of beer. It was a dark, heavy porter from some local brew pub. He shrugged and filled the cup with beer, dumping it into the bowl. It could only really improve the situation. He dragged out the half empty bag of chocolate chips, and added them into the mix as well. They were for pancakes, but Ross liked to sneak some of them while he was cooking other things.

“Can I do anything? Smith asked, sticking his head into the tiny kitchen.

“Finish that fucking spreadsheet,” Ross replied, waving the mixing spoon. “I’m about to put this in the oven.”

“Can I lick the bowl?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent.” Smith grinned and vanished around the corner. Ross listened to the thump of his feet along the floor. It was a wonder the downstairs neighbors never complained about Smith’s tendency to stomp around like an elephant.

Ross gave the pans a perfunctory wipe with some olive oil, and divided the batter. He set the timer on his phone. Carrying the bowl, he wandered back over to the dining table and Smith.

“Here you are.” He leaned on the back of Smith’s chair, licking the spatula while he read over his shoulder. “How’s going?”

“Well, I’m up to September?” Smith stuck a finger in the cake batter , dragging it around the side of the bowl. He lifted it to his mouth. Ross watched him suck his finger clean, unsure if it was erotic or weird, or both. Mostly he was tired. But the brilliant smile Smith flashed at him stirred something.

“Did you put something in here?”

“Beer, and chocolate chips.” Ross shrugged. He handed Smith the spatula. “Use that, not your fingers, or you’ll make a mess of the computer.”

Smith laughed, scraping the last of the batter out of the bowl.

“Yes, mom.”

“God, don’t call me that.” Ross smacked the back of his head lightly. “I’m going to figure out what to do about frosting.”

“Awesome.” Smith handed back the bowl. It was the only big one they had. Standing at the sink, washing it out with a smidge of dish soap, Ross pondered the frosting options. There wasn’t enough butter to really do buttercream, and he’d used all the chocolate. There was powdered sugar, since he made plenty of french toast on the weekends. Setting the bowl on the counter, he opened up the pantry again, wondering if he had any of those caramels leftover from a few weeks ago. They were probably gone though. He shoved the few jars and boxes around, and discovered an unopened container of peanut butter. Ross held it for a moment, checking the expiration date.

“Well, this might work,” he mused. Ross set the last of the butter on the counter to soften up, and flipped through recipes on his phone while the cakes baked. The kitchen was warm, and smelled very chocolate-y. Finishing off the last of his beer, Ross set the bottle very carefully in the recycling bin so the clatter wouldn’t disturb Trott.

When he pulled the cakes out of the oven, Ross set them on the tiny cooling rack balanced over the sink. He set to mixing up a peanut butter frosting out of the powdered sugar, butter, and peanut butter. It was slow going, trying to cream the butter into the sugar by hand as it wasn’t quite as soft as he would like. It was going on three in the morning however, and Ross really didn’t want to sit around waiting. He could hear Smith singing to himself quietly in the next room. Hopefully he was working, and not fucking around on the internet.

Ross poured in a little bit of the milk, trying to make it a bit more spreadable and frosting like. Slowly, the ingredients started to come together. He poked around in the cabinet until he found the tiny bottle of vanilla he used for pancakes. The stuff was ridiculously expensive but real, delicious Mexican vanilla. Ross was morally opposed to artificial vanilla. He dripped a few drops in, trusting it would help make this taste decent.

“God, is it ready?” Smith wandered into the kitchen, crowding into the narrow space. “I’m starving.”

“Hold your horses, I still need to frost it.”

“What is that?” Smith reached out, ready to dip a finger into the bowl. Ross yanked it away at the last second.

“Smith, don’t you- it’s peanut butter frosting, now get out of my way.” Ross shouldered past him and set the bowl carefully out of his reach. His hand hovered over the cakes. Still warm. Goddamn it, he groaned internally. Impulsively, he opened the freezer. It was mostly empty, just a half full bottle of vodka and a few ice cube trays in there. Ross jammed the rack and the cakes inside.

“What are you doing?” Smith watched him, looking baffled.

“Trying to cool the cake off so the frosting doesn’t just melt all over it,” Ross explained. He rinsed off the spatula, wincing at the clatter of dishes. He wanted to clean up a bit but the noise would probably be too much with Trott sleeping.  

“Ross.” Smith dragged out his name, a plaintive sound as he leaned his cheek on Ross’ shoulder. “You are the best, have I told you that?”

“Hmmm.” Ross felt his lips twitch into a smile. Smith rocked them both, humming some pop song as Ross stirred the frosting again. He was warm on Ross’ back, his arms looped casually around Ross’ waist. Reluctantly, Ross pushed him off, and went to pulled the cakes out of the freezer. They were mercifully chilled.

“Alright, let’s get this shit frosted so I can go to bed.” Ross turned one of the cakes out on a plate, just barely big enough for it. He slathered frosting on in big, messy swirls before sandwiching the other layer on top.

“Can we eat now?”

“No,” Ross rolled his eyes. “Let me finish. Grab a plate and silverware, will you?” The frosting was a little thick, but he wasn’t worried about presentation. Ross figured Smith would eat this even if he had the frosting skills of a five year old. He smoothed some frosting around the edges, trying to seal it all together. Smith leaned on the sink, watching with barely restrained glee.

“Okay,” Ross said finally. “Knock yourself out.” Smith cut into the cake, slicing a huge piece that he dragged onto his plate with a fork. Ross licked some of the frosting off the spatula. It wasn’t bad, he thought. Not bad at all for middle of the night impulse cake making. If everything went to shit with their business, he could probably get a job at a bakery.

Smith groaned, a low sound around a mouthful of cake.

“What’s wrong?” Ross demanded. He anxiously watched Smith chew, willing him to hurry up.

“This is so fucking good!” Smith exclaimed. “Have a bite!” He forked up another piece and held it out to Ross.

“I don’t really-”

“Just fucking eat it Ross, you can go to the gym tomorrow and do some extra sit ups or something.”

Frowning, Ross took the fork and nibbled at the piece of cake. You almost couldn’t tell it was box cake mix, he thought. The beer really helped, adding a depth to the chocolate. The frosting was pretty good too. He handed Smith back his fork.

“That’s pretty alright.”

Smith nodded, shoving another bite into his mouth. Ross licked his fingers, smiling.

“You’re still an asshole, for blackmailing me to make you cake.”

“You love me though,” Smith mumbled around a mouthful of cake.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

Smith and Ross both startled at the sound of Trott’s voice behind them. Smith’s fork clattered to the floor, and Ross groaned. He grabbed a paper towel and crouched down to clean up the smear of frosting on the fake wood.

“Want some middle of the night cake, Trott?” Smith grabbed another fork out of the drawer and held it out with a grin.

“No.” Trott waved him off, and fixed his stare on Ross. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Actually yeah, because I’ve been working on sorting out those contracts since after dinner-”

“We’re pretty much done though,” Smith interrupted. He winked at Ross, so quick he almost missed it.

“Why are you… whatever.” Trott flapped a hand at them. “It’s late, I’m tired, come to bed already.”

“Sorry we woke you,” Ross apologized, setting the fork in the sink. He could clean things up in the morning. Smith crammed the last of the cake in his mouth and darted back to the table to shut off his laptop.

“You didn’t.” Trott shrugged, leaning on the wall in the hallway.

“Why are you up then?” Ross yawned.

“Bed felt too empty,” Trott said, slipping one arm around Ross as he switched off the kitchen light. “Not used to having my rest undisturbed by blanket thieves, and snoring, and being kicked unexpectedly.”

“Which one of us snores?” Ross wondered aloud.

“You both do, mate.” Trott watched Smith push by, already pulling his t-shirt over his head.

“No,” protested Ross. Trott just chuckled, and tugged at Ross. Smith was already in the bed, sprawled out in a pair of pajama pants with candy cane stripes. Ross stripped down, tossing his clothes into the overflowing laundry hamper. He watched Trott, wearing a pair of Ross’ boxers and one of Smith’s old band t-shirts from university, as he climbed into bed and promptly hit Smith with a pillow.

“Go brush your teeth, so we can all go the fuck to sleep.”

“Fine, fine.” Smith rolled out bed. Ross took his place, curling up beside Trott with his face in Trott’s hair. He sighed gratefully, enjoying the brand new mattress on their bed. It was ridiculous and expensive and worth every penny in his mind. They might still be living off flat pack IKEA furniture, but having a sturdy bed frame was a necessity for the three of them. A pair of Smith’s cuffs still dangled from the place on one end.

Smith crawled back into the bed with them, worming his way up between them. Reluctantly, Ross let go of Trott. It did usually work out better if they stuck Smith in the middle though. Ross spooned up against his back and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. Smith’s hand reached back for his, twining their fingers together. Ross heard Trott murmur something, and Smith’s quiet acknowledgment. He wriggled around, turning to curl up against Ross. Their knees bumped as they tangled their legs beneath the blanket Trott tossed over them.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Trott demanded, leaning over to kiss each of them on the head. The window unit hummed, blowing mostly chilly air into the room, and Ross drifted off to sleep thinking about cake and contracts.

 


End file.
